


A Study in Moustache

by Enid_Black



Series: Alternative Universe: 1950s [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Genderswapping (for a case), Kind of romantic Sherlock, Slight OOC, WWII/'50s AU, female!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enid_Black/pseuds/Enid_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been almost six years since their marriage and Sherlock and Joan's life seems to have a routine... but, really, how long can it actually last?</p><p>Sequel to: http://archiveofourown.org/works/954511</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 – Of marriage, university and phone calls.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very small chapter, just to come back in the groove of their lives AND to introduce the new matter.
> 
> I have already written some chapter but it's not finished yet. I don't know how regularly it will be posted but I'll do my best.
> 
> Again, many thanks to NepturnalHarianne who is always betaing my works (and as this in particular suffered being written late at night, all my thanks to her!)
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think! ;)

Their life after the marriage didn’t differ a lot from the one before. Joan was now Joan Holmes née Watson, when in mission they shared the bed and not only the room, and they were pretty happy together. 

Still, it had been only Joan’s insistence to respect traditions that had ensured that they didn’t indulge in such activities before the wedding.  
After the war, the need for agents was a bit less pressing. Yes, there was the cold war, but Sherlock avoided that kind of work and Joan had started Medicine at University in order to become a doctor. They kept living at 221b Baker Street and Sherlock started solving private cases. They participated in the occasional mission, if Mycroft and Greg asked them very nicely (or, at least as nicely as a Holmes could manage), but they mainly stayed in London. Joan let her hair flow long and wavy in these times, disregarding the severe bun she used to wear before, and Sherlock let her get away with feeding him a bit more often, chuckling from time to time at the mention of aeroplanes. 

To the knowledge of their neighbours and acquaintances, they were a normal young couple. They loved each other dearly and it showed even when walking down the street, when Sherlock would take Joan by her arm and stroll with her, maybe while investigating.  
They had talked about having children, and had agreed that it was not the right moment. They were both in their late twenties, and feared that their lifestyle would be detrimental to a child. Besides, Joan had just finished Med school and was working at the practice where her old colleague Sarah (one of the nurses she met during the war) worked, they were as happy as they could be and didn’t want anything to change. 

This was more or less the situation at 221b Baker Street when a phone call on the recently installed landline disrupted their quiet evening in, on October 6th, 1951. Joan took her eyes off the peach she was stitching (trying to make the stitches as good as possible) and Sherlock abandoned his microscope in favour of answering the phone.

“Holmes residence,” he said, voice steady, used to the drill.

“Sherlock? It’s Mycroft here. Can you come tomorrow morning at 8 at the Diogenes? I have urgency to speak with you.” He said, with a tone that promised nothing good to come.

“Tomorrow at 8?” Joan mouthed to him ‘I have a shift tomorrow, go alone and then you’ll tell me’, “fine, I’ll be there. No, Joan has a shift tomorrow morning. No problem. She sends her regards. Regards to Greg as well.” And the phone call was closed.

“Do you think he has a new case for you?” Joan asked, keeping on stitching the peach.

“I fear so. I just hope it’s not too boring.”

“I just hope it’s something quick, I don’t really want to be gone from the surgery for long.” She retorted. Sherlock shrugged and gave her a quick kiss on her hair before coming back to the microscope.

“Your stitches are already good, why do you keep practicing?” 

“Because I can’t really see myself embroidering, can you? At least this is useful.” Her husband chuckled and Joan stirred and looked at the clock. She put the peach in the fridge to be eaten the following morning (never one to waste food) “It’s quite late, I’m going to retire. Are you coming to bed, tonight?” she asked from the kitchen.  
Sherlock looked at her. His brother’s tone of voice at the phone had mildly unsettled him. He nodded.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll be with you, my dear.”

“I’ll be waiting for you, husband darling.” She said, coquettishly raising her eyebrow, and then disappeared in the bathroom. 

Sherlock put all his sliders and the microscope away and left to join his wife. They spent the night making love and resting together, next to each other, savouring those moments, because they knew that if Mycroft had needed to call them at such a late hour, their relatively peaceful life was going to be disrupted.


	2. Chapter 2 - A new mission and a change of plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As per title, life can't be boring for Sherlock and Joan, can it?

The following morning, at five to eight, Sherlock stepped out of a black car in front of the Diogenes Club and was welcome inside by the always steady butler. He waited for his brother just a few minutes and he was utterly surprised to see Gregory Lestrade, head of the Liaison Office, at his side. This was not a good sign. While he usually saw them together, it seldom happened in their line of work. 

“I won’t like this, will I?” he asked, when the three men had sat. Greg’s lips tightened for a moment and he sighed. Mycroft pushed a file towards his brother and started to speak.

“An ex OSS agent, now member of the CIA, contacted us few days ago. A technology that must be kept secret had been had fallen in the hands of a surviving agent of the H.Y.D.R.A. who had made an appointment with Peter Sherringford, an English chemistry professor who has been studying the chemical reactions that are at the base of this technology." Mycroft followed Sherlock's gaze as he turned the pages and saw the pictures regarding the technology. "A more extensive report on the subject is included in the file, I’m sure you’ll be able to understand it better than me. CIA contacted professor Sherringford, investigating in his contact abroad, and when the professor understood that he was not just a scholar but a Nazi agent, he decided report to us all the communications that had taken place between them and every further progress regarding his studies. He was supposed to leave for America in one month to go and meet with him. The problem is: Professor Sherringford died yesterday night as a result of an accident." the elder Holmes put a certain weight on the word accident, suggesting it was anything but. "During a storm, a branch fell from the tree in front of his house and fell on the roof of his room, hitting him and killing him. As you can understand, we have kept this quiet. He was a confirmed bachelor and didn’t have any collaborator. He would have had a liaison officer with medical formation, a man, as he usually didn’t like interacting with women, but at this point we have to change our plans.”

Sherlock interrupted Mycroft’s narration,

“What does it have to do with me?” he asked.

“Open the file, there is a photo of professor Peter Sherringford.” *

Sherlock opened the file and his eyes widened. The hair was shorter, he wore glasses and a slight stubble, but may he be damned if they didn’t seem twins.

“Yes, this is indeed self-explanatory.” He said, tiredly. 

“It doesn’t hurt that you are an apt chemist too.” Greg added. 

“Let me sum this up: you want me to take Sherringford’s place, go to America in one month and have the meeting with the H.Y.D.R.A. Agent? How long will we be gone and what is the real target of CIA and yours?” he asked, reclining in the seat.

“Only you shall go, Sherlock, and a male Liaison officer. We can’t risk your cover sending Joan with you, Sherringford was seldom seen with women, and not one of them has ever been an assistant of his.” Sherlock sighed.

“Joan will kill us all, you do realise that, Mycroft.”

“Let me handle Joan,” said Greg “she’s still one of my agents.” Sherlock regarded Greg with a very unimpressed glance.

“Is it absolutely necessary? For me to go, I mean.” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“I fear it is, brother. You are the only one with the knowledge and the appearance to pass as Professor Sherringford. Not to mention that it is a very delicate situation and I desire it to be handled only by the best.”

“Flattering me will never get you anywhere. But, sadly, I can see your point. I’ll take the file, let me have the dates and the data… and pray for me as I will have to tell Joan. ” Greg cringed. “No, Greg, it has to be me.”

 

That afternoon Joan came back to a strangely quiet flat. Mrs Hudson was outside and Sherlock was looking outside the window, immersed in thought. She entered in the sitting room and hanged her jacket, then turned to him.

“Sherlock? Is everything all right?” she asked. Sherlock turned, startled, and this made Joan’s eyebrows knit together. She didn’t have the time to ask him more, though, because she was engulfed in his embrace while he kissed her on the mouth. For a moment Joan leaned in the kiss, letting Sherlock control it, but started to slowly get the control and slow it down. Sherlock exhaled against her lips and pecked them again, eyes closed.

“Bad day?” Joan asked. Sherlock put his forehead on Joan’s and looked her in the eyes.

“The worst is yet to come.” He answered.

“That means I won’t like what you are going to tell me, doesn't it?” Joan said, her voice resigned.

“No, you won’t. And I don’t like telling you. It’s a mission. And I have to go without you, not with my approval, I assure you, my dear.” Joan closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply. She took Sherlock’s hand and led him on the couch, where she had him sit down and then sat down against him.

“I won’t get angry at you. Just tell me.” Sherlock looked at her and told her all about the mission, showing her the relevant data on the file when she needed it. She looked impressed at the resemblance between Sherlock and the professor and her eyebrows furrowed reading the file. “Seems dangerous.” She murmured. Her husband kissed her temple.

“You know I don’t lie to you. It is. And I don’t like going without you. But the mission is important. Today there were both Mycroft and Greg to ask me. There’s no time to train someone else.” He said, dejected.

“I realise that, Sherlock. It doesn’t mean that I have to like it,” she seemed to consider something, then, “You have a month before the ETD, right?”

“Correct." 

“Well, have Mycroft send here the available footage and vocal records of the professor, if I can’t be with you I’ll at least make sure you’ll be as ready as possible.” 

“You keep on surprising me, Joan. I’ll call Mycroft later and have everything sent for tomorrow.” He said, smiling.

“Not now?” she asked, a little breathless as he put his arms around her and moved her limbs so that she straddled him on the couch.

“Not now.” He confirmed, a low rumble upon her lips, kissing her “My dear, you really are my conductor of light, I would be blind and lost without you.” His lips insisted on hers and Joan whimpered, letting Sherlock distract her, distracting him from the countdown that would then mark their time together.

 

The following day, Mycroft sent everything they had asked for, Anthea helping them putting the projector together. Joan prepared sandwiches for lunch and they spent the time watching and re-watching the footage, which was not much, and listening to the professor’s speech. His accent was a little more typical of the northern part of the country, and Joan assisted Sherlock in learning to speak like that. She took note to find a pair of fake glasses for him, as it took time to get used to wearing them, and to trim his hair too, much to her disappointment. She loved her husband’s curls.

On Thursday, just a couple of days after the announcement of the mission, Joan found herself with an unexpectedly free afternoon. Sherlock was at a briefing at MI6, and the day was too mild to go straight to an empty home. Besides, it would be empty enough all too soon, so she decided to go and find those glasses she wanted to take for Sherlock. She went to West End. She had just the right shop in mind: an old friend of hers owned it and she could find just the right item. Entering the shop, the bell above the door made her presence known and she heard a voice calling from the backroom,

“One moment, please, I’m coming!” Joan smiled hearing Molly’s voice. “Hello, how may I… Joan!” the young woman called, hurrying beyond the counter and hugging Joan, “I haven’t seen you in ages! How are you? I’ve heard you’re married!” she said, in one breath. Joan smiled widely and regarded the woman in front of her.

“Molly Hooper, from nurse to make-up artist! I’ve been fine, thank you, and yes, I am married, happily too. How are you, sweetie?” she asked.

“Joan, Joan, we definitely have to catch up. I’m fine, still unattached, but I’ve been so busy with my job that I barely have time to rest! Listen, I have a customer in the back, I’m teaching him how to do his make-up for a play at the Globe, he’ll be Puck! Why don’t you come and chat a bit with me?” Joan nodded and followed the former-nurse in the back of the shop. What from the outside seemed a small, unimpressive place, had a much larger backroom, where Molly had her warehouse and a make-up station that rivalled with those found in theatres. A young man, no older than twenty, was perched on a stool and she was applying him different shades. She watched mesmerised as his features changed considerably. An idea started in her head. “Come on, Joan Watson, tell me something! For example, who is the man that stole your heart? Do I know him?” Molly looked at her expectantly for a second, then proceeded to apply more shades on the boy’s face.

“As a fact, yes, you do know him. I’m Joan Holmes, now.” She said. Molly stopped her motions to look at her.

“Holmes like that Holmes? The one that spread terror in the hospital during the war? The same one that made several nurses run away in tears?” she asked, astonished. Joan smiled and let out a chuckle, remembering those days.

“The one and only. You will remember that I was the only one able to make him cooperate… well, he’s still cooperating. Sherlock is still a difficult man, but I’m proud to say that I made a honest man out of him.” Molly looked at her and her gaze softened seeing her friend’s happiness.

“And how long have you been married?”

“In December we have our sixth anniversary.” She answered, hiding the pang of pain that hit her chest. He’ll probably be still on mission, then. 

“Well, you… he courted you when he was your patient?” asked Molly, doing the maths in her head. Joan shook her head.

“He asked for the permission to court me the day he left. And when I was discharged, three months later, he was in London waiting for me. I had him suffer for almost a year, before he proposed me.”

“Do tell, I am so busy I have to vicariously live my friends’ love stories.” She prompted her, changing the shade colour and the brush she used.

“Well, I learnt later that he had been struggling for some time trying to propose to me. And then… we were in a Chinese shop in China town, I had put my eyes on some nice cups and saucers, when, while the shop-keeper kept trying to sell him one of those tacky fortune cats ‘as a gift to his wife’ and I was almost telling her that I wasn’t, he dropped on one knee, took out his mother’s engagement ring and… proposed. I was stunned for a second, I could not believe it!” Molly laughed at that and Joan joined her. “Afterwards, we married. We made a very small ceremony, just my sister, his brother, who celebrated, his best man and the housekeeper that has been helping him for almost a decade, a nice woman that is so precious in the house.”

“Housekeeper? Is he rich?” she asked.

“We’re well off. She’s more a sort of aunt, the house we live in has three flats, one is empty, we live at the one upstairs and she has the one downstairs, what with her hip. I try not to have her do a lot in the house, she helps me dusting and so on, but I do the most.”

“Wow, it seems a good life.” Molly said “I’m so happy for you.”

“And you? How did you passed from nurse to genius of the stage?” Molly reddened. “Come on, don’t be shy, your name and your shops are on all the newspapers when it comes to successful plays.”

“Oh, you know, it was a hobby and then… I came back and I didn’t want to work with injured people anymore, I needed a break. A friend of mine was a make-up artist in a small production and asked me to help her, so I went. And basically, I was called more and more often and… I like it. I get to observe the structure of people’s faces and change or enhance it. Really, I love it.”

“I’m happy you’re doing something you like.”

“Yeah, me too. And Sarah, have you heard from her?” 

“I work with her, actually. She’d the head nurse in the practice I work too. She is fine, married with an ex-soldier and has one daughter. She’s two and she’s lovely. ” Joan smiled.

“Still a nurse, then? I remember you aspiring to be something more.” Molly asked, keeping her hand on a very careful stroke of black on the inner part of the cheekbone.

“Not a nurse. Doctor Joan Holmes at your service.” She answered. Molly let a squeal.

“I love that in the end everything went well.”

Joan nodded even if she knew that it wasn't entirely true. The customer had finished and was happy about the result. He paid Molly and went away, ready for the play. Molly took her time to make a cup of tea and sat next to Joan in the other chair she had in the backroom. Joan sipped her tea a bit, then,

“Anyway, I’ve come here because I need your help. My husband and I have been involved in a small play, and, as there are not enough men, they asked me to play the part of a young man around 25 years old. Do you think you could teach me how to disguise as one? And, I need a pair of glasses with fake lenses for my husband.” Molly smiled cheerful.

“Of course I can. I can do it the first time and then teach you, if you want.”

“It would be great. I was thinking about fake moustache, have you anything good?” Molly smiled

“I have a new type of moustache that came yesterday and that really seems true. And I have a lot of glasses with glass-only lenses. Let’s finish our tea and I’ll show you.”  
Joan went back home, that day, with a smile and a pair of glasses she put on Sherlock’s face whilst kissing him. 

“Had a nice day?” he asked, smiling at seeing his wife in a good mood after those two sombre days.

“Molly Hooper says hello.” She answered, nodding, “Do you remember her?” Sherlock nodded “She has the shop where I bought the glasses. I had a nice chat with her, catching up a bit, you know?” her husband smiled.

“My dear, can I distract you from dinner and duty?” he asked playfully, taking off the glasses and placing them on the skull on the mantelpiece. Joan smiled wickedly.

“Darling, you are always distracting me…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * the photo of professor Sherringford is more or less this one [](http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/89/3rxx.jpg/)  
> Uploaded with [ImageShack.us](http://imageshack.us)


	3. Chapter 3 - Learning to be a professor, learning to be a man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> getting into the story! Thanking my unwavering Beta NepturnalHarianne who is the one that corrects all my wall of texts (the characters won't shut up and I end up not putting enough descriptions) and that gives to "look" and "made" some vacation XD.
> 
>  
> 
> Also... sweet scene!

Joan paid attention, from then on, to distract Sherlock when he would ask too many questions. She divided her time in helping Sherlock become Peter Sherringford, the practice, and going to Molly’s to learn how to apply the make up on her jaws, eyebrows, nose and chin, so that her face looked more angular.  
She found a pair of moustache that matched her blond hair (a bit darker) and learnt how to apply them:she could pass decently for a young man, that way.  
She knew she would have, in the end, to sacrifice her long hair, but for the time being, she practised with a short wig. 

Even bestowing attentions, however, is not always enough to distract a man, especially if he’s called Sherlock Holmes. 

“My dear, what are you wearing?” he asked, slightly bewildered, coming home earlier than she expected from his latest case, something she’d thought it would keep him busier.  
Joan’s eyes widened for a moment, surprised by her husband’s voice.. She snatched away hastily the hand she was using to try and put the moustache on, her short wig swaying on her head at her sharp turning towards him. Then she sighed, 

“I had hoped to make a surprise out of it,” she said, “I had Molly teaching me to put moustache and make up to look like a man, this way I thought I could help you getting… acquainted touching a man, even if it was still me. You read the file, he is definitely homosexual. You need to get his mannerism… I thought it could help.” She explained. 

Every lie, to be believable, had to be essentially true, that was one of the first lessons Lestrade had given her at the beginning of her training. Sherlock stared at her doubtfully. 

“My dear Joan, I would never mistake you for a man… your scent alone is sufficient to let me aware that it’s you, and, whatever your clothes, I will always recognize you.” Joan looked at him.

“Well, I was trying. It can’t hurt, can it? You could teach me how to pass for a man in the first place, and I can be more convincing and help you out then.” She tried. Sherlock gazed at his wife, his eyes stilling on the half applied moustache, then smirked and shook his head.

“I suppose it mightn’t hurt, yeah. Ok, let me see what you can do.”

“You’ll have to give me another half an hour. Relax, there’s some tea still hot in the kitchen and Mrs Hudson brought those wonderful cookies of hers. Eat a bit, God knows if you’ll eat enough on mission without me.” She said, leaving a kiss on his forehead.

“It tickles!” Joan laughed.

“Now you know how I feel when you forget to shave!” she retorted. She went to the bathroom and puffed in relief. Maybe, and just maybe, she had convinced him. And this way she needn’t conceal her own little training.  
She needed to be _very_ ready. 

“Man up, Joan,” she murmured to herself, giggling slightly at the involuntary pun. 

The three weeks leading to the departure day passed faster than she thought they would.  
Using the excuse of a distant relative needing her skills as doctor in the North, she took time off the practice and used it to train with Sherlock: she would correct him on the speech, on the movements, and he would tell her how to acquire the true stance and mannerism of a man.  
She blushed at sitting with her legs slightly opened, but she learnt to do it and even figured the right way to bind her chest, even if, luckily for this escapade, she wasn’t very curvy.  
Sherlock fought with the glasses, until Joan convinced him to wear them every day to get used to them. When Sherlock was in meeting for the mission with Greg and Mycroft, she would spend the time studying the file again and again.  
She learnt that the assistant of the professor was a doctor. Well, at least that part would be infinitely easy.  
She still had to keep Sherlock _distracted_ every time his suspicions came to light; but, well, that wasn’t a con at all, because surely led to some mutual fun.

On his part, Sherlock felt the gnarl of doubt creeping in his mind: something was off with Joan’s behaviour but, between the meetings, the training and Joan’s own method of distraction, every time he was near to pin point exactly what was that disturbed him, the thought… would just fly away. The weight of the first mission in seven years without his faithful Joan was heavy on his shoulders, making the preparation for it slower and more difficult than it should have been.  
Greg presented him the Liaison Officer, Mike Stamford, an agent and doctor roughly of Joan’s age that was decent enough, but that Sherlock knew he could stand only for short periods of time, he couldn’t even think of managing to fake an interest in him without wanting to run away screaming murder soon enough. 

“Mycroft, this _thing_ will just throw off the whole mission, if I can’t have Joan, why can’t I go alone?” he asked. It was the twelfth time they had had the same discussion, and Mycroft sighed.

“My dear brother, as you have access to the same information I have access to, you are well aware that that is not possible.” Mycroft’s expression reminded Sherlock of the one he took on when swallowing something so very bitter, Sherlock himself had caused a similar subtle twisting of the mouth with a prank, when they were younger.  
“Professor Sherringford,” Mycroft continued slowly, “was pretty obvious in his preference and the only reason he was never arrested was that he and his partner were subtle enough not to justify a police intervention _and_ that meanwhile we had found him.”  
Sherlock merely kept his eyes on Mycroft, unmoving and just slightly frustrated, until Mycroft sighed again and leaned minutely forward in his chair. “It is imperative that you are not alone: it’s too dangerous, I will not waver on this.” Mycroft’s word had the stale rhythm of frequent repetition.  
He understood better than others his brother’s hesitation in leaving his wife behind and his reluctance in working with someone new, but they couldn’t do otherwise. In the end, Sherlock turned his gaze away, seemed to relent and huffed.

“Well… I had to try.” He let out, “Do you have the specifics for my departure? It’s in three days if nothing has changed.” He said. Mycroft relaxed at the change of topic.

“As a matter of fact, I do have your flight details here.” He tapped a small stack of papers at his right. “You will leave from the Stansted airport on November 5th, at 10 am, and you will head to New York. You will stay at Waldorf Astoria hotel in Manhattan and you will wait there for the Liaison Officer, who will come on November 7th. He will bring the details for the mission.. Take the opportunity, in those two days, to familiarise with the city: it is just as big and busy as our London.” Sherlock nodded.

“Today’s the 2nd. May I take this week-end free? It is acceptable to arrange a final meeting for early morning on Monday, but I would like to spend time with Joan.”.

“Of course, little brother. Tell Joan that I’ll keep her posted on your behalf and that she’s free to come and stay with us for the time being, if she wants.”. 

“I’ll do,” The younger Holmes acquiesced. “Bye, Mycroft.”

“See you on Monday, Sherlock.”

When Sherlock came home that night, Joan was herself. Sherlock smiled at her, discarded his coat and embraced her, keeping her tight, while she combed through his – now shorter – hair.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“I’m leaving on Monday.” He answered, nosing at her hair. “But I have this week-end for us. Only for us. No professor Sherringford and no you dressing like a man. I want to commit these two days to my memory, because I’ll need them while I am away.”

“And I need to do the same, because being without you will be hard on me too.” She murmured, she was determined not to cry and her eyes seemed to listen to her, but her voice cracked nonetheless. “Oh God, Sherlock, come back to me, please.” She pleaded. Sherlock buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.

“I want to remember your smell, the way you always seem to smell of disinfectant and orange, and I have grown addicted to it. I want to remember the texture of your skin, your fingers rough for the callouses of the scalpel, of the gun, the smooth flesh of your inner forearm, the alluring curve of your belly and the carved skin on your shoulder.” He caressed her face, sliding his fingers on her neck, under the blouse, barely touching the scar on the shoulder. “I want to remember your hair, dark gold silk and wavy and so different from when we first met, when it was tight in a severe bun. I want to remember your eyes, hazel and greens mixing in the sun, and pupils growing so huge they obliterate them when we make love, and I can only see the black hole I fall into every time I let myself get lost in your soul. I want to remember how short you are, how easy it is for me to pick you up,” and he did it, he picked her up while she looked at him amazed and enchanted, and went to their bedroom, easing Joan down on the bed and starting peeling off her layers, still talking, his voice low and steady and hypnotic, “how strong you are under these unassuming limbs. I want to remember your laugh, your chuckle, I want to remember your moans,” he sucked the point where neck and shoulder met and Joan let out the sound he craved, “I want to remember your sense of humour and your intelligence, I want to remember the awe in your eyes when I solve a case with one of my deductions and I want to remember the fondness in them when we are in our bed cuddling.” Joan let herself float, let herself be lulled by his words, while his hand coursed on her skin, igniting it. She managed to get the jacket and the shirt off her husband and they both lost themselves in each other, committing to memory every tiny detail, forbidding for the night the ghost of impending separation.

 

On Monday morning, Sherlock had everything ready. His suitcase was by the door, beside the professor’s coat, different from his own, that would stay at home with his beloved. He was checking the last details and buttoning the jacket, when Joan took his hands. 

“Kiss me, my heart,” she whispered, “and be lucky and be strong. I’ll be waiting for you.” She assured him.  
Sherlock took her face between his hands and kissed her deeply.  
Joan stood on her tiptoes and hugged his neck, “I’ll miss you,” she murmured on his shoulder.

“I’ll miss you too.” He answered. They untangled from the embrace and Joan took the glasses from the skull, putting them carefully on Sherlock’s face. They heard the doorbell ring. 

“They’re here. Go, now, the sooner you’ll be there, the sooner you’ll be back.” She said, pecking him. Sherlock picked her embroidered tissue (with an unassuming J and H) and said,

“See you soon, my dear.”

Joan laughed, an errant tear falling from her right eye.

“See you soon, my heart.”

Sherlock took the coat and slipped in his Peter Sherringford persona. The door of 221b closed behind his back and from the window Joan watched him getting into the car and leaving, following the vehicle with until her gaze could follow it. 

She allowed herself a moment to be sad, then closed her eyes and breathed deeply. 

When she opened them again, she was ready.  
First things first, she took the bag that was hiding in her closet and went to Molly’s to have her hair cut short.  
She hadn’t told Molly much, but her friend had been keen to help her even without all the details.  
Then, putting a hat on those now short sandy-blonde hair, she went to the MI6 HQ.  
Entering as herself was an easy task, she was well known, and with the brisk weather no one commented on the hat.  
She got into the Ladies’ and closed herself in one of the stalls, taking her clothes and putting on her disguise’s.  
Then, she stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes (she had gotten quite fast, exercising every day to get faster and faster) and applied make-up and moustache with utter attention. With the hair cut short, the make-up shaping the shadows so that her face appeared more angular, her chest bound and the masculine three-piece, she didn’t seem Joan Helsin Holmes anymore: John Hamish Morstan was ready to make his debut.  
She changed her stance, just like Sherlock had taught her to do, standing a bit straighter, the legs held wider, and exited the bathroom: luckily, no one was walking down the hallway.  
She turned her left and approached Lestrade’s office, putting her ear near the door to listen to the noises coming from the inside: it seemed that Lestrade was alone, she could hear him muttering by himself.  
She knocked on the door.  
That was it, the moment of the truth.

“Come in,” she heard from inside. She pushed the door open and entered at a sustained pace. Greg didn’t notice her immediately, his attention on the document he was trying to make sense of, then he raised his eyes, “One moment, I’m finis… who the hell are you? Who let you in?” he questioned, standing up from the chair at a remarkable speed.  
Joan stood silent, letting him come near, “I won’t repeat myself, _who are you_?” He asked pointedly.  
Joan extended her hand and in her new practiced voice, an octave lower than her already contralto voice, she answered.

“My name is John Hamish Morstan, nice to meet you.” 

The name seemed to trigger something in Lestrade’s memory and he looked at her, without taking the proffered hand.  
Joan managed to hide the smile that wanted to escape her, instead she took piety of the man: “Come on, Greg,” she said with her normal voice, “You don’t recognise your own pupil?”  
Greg’s eyes widened comically, Joan’s shimmered triumphantly. _This can work._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speaking about the sweet scene, a while ago, starting on this project, I was discussing with NepturnalHarianne that I couldn't help to see Sherlock very affectionate and romantic (in his ways, but still) with Joan and that I tended to see Sherlock and John like less romantic and inclined to sweet gestures...
> 
> so, while she was beta-ing this chapter, she left this comment. It's none the less the Sherlock/John version of the romantic scene, when Sherlock woos Joan... well, let's say that on the Sherlock/John side, it didn't go that way... NepturnalHarianne depicted perfectly what the difference was:
> 
> "Sherlock sweet-talking JOHN:  
> “and he did it, he picked John up- and John screeched like a harpy, brought his knee up and his elbow down and hit Sherlock in two places at once, making his hands lose their grip and their master lose his balance, so that they both ended up on the floor with twin loud thumps.  
> “Joooohn! Why did you-“  
> “Bloody hell, Sherlock! Don’t do that again, ever!” And he stood up, frowning and military straight, taking a step away  
> “Wait, John! Where are you- I was only trying to sweet talk you!”  
> “Well, good job of it!”  
> Sherlock frowned.  
> “Does that mean that you won’t have sex with me right now?”  
> “Oh, you got it. It’s a miracle, isn’t it!” Shouted John, rubbing the arm he’d banged falling.  
> “But Joooooooooooooohn…!”
> 
>  
> 
> yes, well, I died laughing when I arrived there and found THAT comment XD
> 
> So I HAD to share it with you ^^


	4. Chapter 4: New name, new mission, new state.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Joan be able to convince Mycroft? 
> 
> Well, read on!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very very very sorry for how late I am in publishing this. I am not very fast with multichapter story. I want to tell to everyone: THIS STORY IS NOT ABANDONED. I'm just very slow, what between work, a partner, two dogs ^^... Life is hectic.
> 
> But I'm still writing it, I have a good outline so it will be eventually finished ^^.
> 
> As usual, infinite thanks to NepturnalHarianne, my sweet Beta ^^

“How in hell… why in hell… hell.” 

Those were Greg’s first words. 

Joan’s smile felt weird with the moustache over her lips “Joan, what are you up to?”

“You are going to send Sherlock in mission with Mike Stamford, that, while is a very good man and a very competent doctor, can’t act for his life.” She pointed out, fast paced and in her most competent voice. “I trained with Sherlock for the last month,” she continued evenly, “helping him getting into his Professor Sherringford role, correcting his speech patterns, looking at the research.”

Joan let a minuscule pause stretch, not such that Greg would have the time to get a word in, but enough to be pointedly poignant, before she let out the rest of her speech. 

“I am the only Liaison Officer who has been able to work with Sherlock Holmes for an extensive period of time. I married the man, what the hell. The only problem is that I was not of the right sex.” Her eyebrows rose up when Lestrade’s mouth opened, as to point out that she still was of the wrong sex. “Not even you recognized me, Greg, and we’ve known each other for more than six years.” She answered to the unspoken protest. “I know it doesn’t depend only on you, but I know enough about the mission to get how dangerous it is and it doesn’t sit well with me to let my husband go alone when I have both the experience and the medical knowledge to be par to the role.” 

Joan finished delivering her speech, all this said with her “man” voice, as she had rehearsed at home to an unimpressed skull and a waving Lucky Cat.  
Greg Lestrade, who hadn’t managed to get in a word edge-wise in the last few minutes, sat down again, taking his head in his hands.

“Bloody hell.” He swore and Joan raised her eyebrows again, “You really are a menace, just like Sherlock,” he sighed. “I can see your point and I can’t deny that I’d be more at ease knowing my best agent is on the case with the madman, instead of another one, but you are right: it doesn’t depend on me. You’ll have to ask Mycroft.” He let out, looking pointedly at her, still with a hint of disbelief.

“Bring me to him, then. At least, if I can surprise him and you both, people who know me well, I could even trick a criminal mastermind, couldn’t I?” Greg sighed, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe I’m going to do it,” he muttered. “Does Sherlock know about this?” he asked, waving in her general direction. 

“No, I kept it secret. Made like I did it to help him while I was training too. We’re used to do that for cases. I made sure not to tell him because I didn’t want him to be disappointed if I failed.” She answered, not without a hint of pride in her voice.

“Well Joan, sure as hell, if you hadn’t spoken with your natural voice, I wouldn’t have recognised you. Let’s see if you can trick a Holmes.” He stood up and went to the door. He zeroed his gaze on her head as he passed by her. “Did you cut your hair? That doesn’t seem a wig.” He asked.

“I practiced with a wig, but it tickles and falls and is generally uncomfortable. A cut seemed a better idea and lent to the general realism.” She answered, truthfully.

“Gosh, you’re serious, aren’t you?” Greg stated, more disbelief tinting his words.

“Deadly so,” she answered.

Greg guided her up until the highest floor, where Mycroft’s office was located.  
He nodded to Anthea, who raised her eyebrows at seeing Joan. Joan just murmured, “It’s me but don’t utter a word,” to the special agent that acted like Mycroft secretary.  
She looked positively impressed and smiled her. Greg knocked on the door and the permission was granted from the inside.

“Liaison Chief Lestrade, what do I owe the pleasure to?” Mycroft said, noticing the foreign person at Greg’s side.

“It was my fault, Mr Holmes,” Joan said, in his John persona, “I insisted with Chief Lestrade to meet you. I was very convincing.” Mycroft moved his enquiring gaze from his partner and let it slide on the stranger inside his office, analysing him. 

Gregory would never have brought someone dangerous up to his office and he seemed more curious than worried.  
He let his eyes fall back on the unknown man, who kept on speaking, “My name is John Hamish Morstan, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mycroft’s eyebrows perked up. The man smiled and Mycroft had to fight to keep his expression in check.

“Lord All Mighty,” he murmured. Greg chuckled at the rare profanity. “You two will get me to the asylum way before time,” he uttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I fear I know the reason, but… why?” he asked then. 

Joan started her reasoning again, repeating what she had said to Lestrade just few minutes earlier.  
Mycroft listened to her, never betraying any of his thoughts.  
He asked her some questions (about the mission, the professor) and she answered in kind: she was a damn good agent and she was a fierce woman and she just wanted to go with her husband because she didn’t want to rely on anyone but herself for his safety.  
She also was a skilled doctor and could make a decent man and she knew that, hadn’t the sex been a requirement, her position would never ever been in doubt.  
Joan was definitely on a rally, but for the whole time the kept her character.  
In the end she said,

“Well, what do you have to say, Mr British Government?” 

Mycroft observed her again and then shifted his gaze on Greg, who looked just as impressed as he felt in that moment.

“Joan,”

“John.” She corrected.

“John, may you excuse us? I have to speak with the Liaison Officer about that. Go home, we’ll be in touch.” He said, like that had been a normal interview.

Joan relented, she knew she had done everything she could.  
She went out of the office and leant on the heavy door: supporting herself, not trying to listen. She huffed and went to Anthea’s desk, just not to stay still jittering.

“I have to say, Mrs Holmes,” she started, not even looking away from the documents she was arranging, “that this is one of the most interesting things I have ever seen and I have to commend your daring.” She raised her eyes on her, “We need more women like you.” Joan summoned up a small smile to Anthea, appreciating her praise.  
The agent took the phone and dialled a three digit number “Jeremy? Can you please take a car and take Mr Morstan to Baker Street? Thank you.” She hung the phone and looked up at Joan for the first time since their little conversation started. “A car will be here shortly to take you home, I’ll make sure that they don’t take all day.”.

“Thank you, Anthea, I don’t think I can wait here anymore. I’ve done what I could, now it’s in their hands.”

Joan went home, staring out the window of the black car for the whole journey back. 

And then proceeded to freak Mrs Hudson out. 

She put the key in the door and opened it just as their housekeeper was going out to grocery shopping. 

“Who are you? How do you have the keys of this house?” she asked, matter-of-factly. 

Joan smiled, but didn’t have to heart to trick her.

“Mrs Hudson, it’s just me. I was trying a cover for work,” she reassured the lady.

“Oh my god, Joan? What have you done to your hair? Oh, poor me, your beautiful hair.”

“It’ll grow back, Mrs Hudson, don’t worry.” Mrs Hudson cupped her face.

“You’ll see him in no time, sweetie.” She told her. Joan smiled to her and nodded.

“Yes, you’re right… Now, I’m going to.. err, take off all this make up and the moustache. Do you need help with the grocery shopping?” she asked.

“Well, why not, Joanie, but please, come as yourself.” Joan chuckled.

“Let me just change and I’ll be with you.” Mrs Hudson smiled to her and nodded.

Joan went with her gladly, putting a nice hat and one of Sherlock’s scarves to protect her head and neck from the chill of November.  
She was grateful for the chance to put her mind off the thought of her projects being crushed. 

The evening passed without news and trying to avoid getting stuck in the living room, she decided to go to bed.  
She had had Sherlock wearing several of his scarves in the last month, so that they at least retained his smell, if she couldn’t have him in their bed, she knew she would need something that reminded her of him. She changed into her nightgown, scraping at her now much shorter hair, and took one of the scarves with her.  
Joan tossed and turned for almost an hour until, in the end, she slumbered into a restless sleep, the scarf wound around her, her face on his pillow. 

The morning after, she woke up early, incapable of staying idly in bed without Sherlock in there (and they wouldn’t be exactly idle anyway, she thought with a wry smile).  
After breakfast, a fast round of laundry and having reordered all the information she had on the case, she put herself at the kitchen table, cleaning her gun for the tenth time in three days. 

Waiting for Mycroft and Greg to decide was grating on her nerves, but she couldn’t bear to go outside, lest she lose a phone call. 

Midday came and went and her hopes started vacillating: if she was to join him, she should have to leave the following morning. It was plausible that they decided to leave her home, but she refused to think to it, checking her bags for the umpteenth time and pulling impatiently at her short hair in the meanwhile, frustration building up. 

Obviously, the phone decided to ring when she was at the loo. 

Joan finished washing and rinsed her hands at record time, getting to answer at the phone after the fourth ring.

“Hello, Holmes’ residence,” she answered, slightly breathless.

“Are you good to go?” Greg’s voice asked her, prompt.

“Yes, I am.” She answered just as promptly.

“There will be a car picking you up in ten minutes. Be sure to be ready to leave the country.” He told her sharp.

“Aye, sir.” She answered, and the phone call ended. 

Joan counted up until ten before giving out a shout of victory.  
She gathered the bag with her man clothes and the make-up and her notes on the case and rushed downstairs, where she talked briefly with Mrs Hudson, explaining that the house would be empty for some weeks, and that if she wanted to go to her sister she was free to do that,

“Just, please, I didn’t have the time to sort the fridge, can you think to that? There are no body parts, it’s just not to throw away perfectly good food.” She pleaded, soothing any worries the landlady might have in the meantime. Mrs Hudson, blessed her, nodded and reassured Joan that everything was fine. 

When the black car pulled in in front of 221B Baker Street, Joan was in her coat, with her suitcases on the pavement, ready to mount on it.  
The moment the car stopped in front of the MI6 HQ, Joan bolted outside of it with her luggage and entered with a quick hello to the guard at the entrance, aiming directly for Lestrade’s office.  
Before she could get there, however, Anthea intercepted her.

“They’re in Mr Holmes’ office,” she said, “I’m here to fetch you, come with me, Joan.” She all but ordered her and the doctor gladly followed.

When she entered in Mycroft’s office, Greg was there at his side and they were both standing. Mycroft turned to Joan.

“We acquired new information that made this case a bit trickier than originally planned. At this point, even if I think it is very dangerous, we can’t spare our best Liaison Officer. Sit down, Joan, I’m going to update you on the details so that you will be able to update Sherlock as well.” Joan did as asked, and opened her notepad, ready to write in her own code (and left-handed). “We received this morning news from one of our agents in America.” He started, staring first outside the window and then turning to Joan, “Agent Dimmock refers that the name of the former H.Y.D.R.A. Agent that is due to contact professor Sherringford next week is James Moriarty. It’s a well-known name, to us, alas.” His expression seemed pained for just a fraction of second: Joan noticed only because living with Sherlock had taught her something. Sensible topic, then.  
“He was a promising MI5 agent that betrayed his country at the beginning of the war. He was very young and very ambitious. We have heard of him here and there, he has become quite the criminal. He calls himself a ‘consulting criminal’, nonetheless.” Joan could almost hear the quotation marks in Mycroft’s tone. “This makes everything particularly tricky. While he never met with Sherlock, he knows how we work and he’ll be looking for standard issued sets of codes and passwords. Sherlock and you will have to rework all your safety words.” Mycroft started pacing, an unusual behaviour for him. The problem was huge. “Besides, we understood that Moriarty has disguised himself as a scientist. Professor Sherringford wasn’t a traitor, but he surely was too keen on getting every information he could on this power source. The CIA sent a memorandum with the word ‘Tesseract’ and a fuzzy description as a bluish cube. It also stated that it was recorded as lost after a sea-landing of the H.Y.D.R.A. flying machine drove by Captain Rogers, better known as Captain America.” Joan’s eyebrows perked up: she had heard about the hero’s disappearance. “I managed to ensure you the help of the CIA through our Liaison Agent that had worked with Captain Rogers and you will meet with Mr Stark, he has some material for you. That is why you will leave today. You will meet Stark, get all the information you can from him and then you will go to the agreed upon rendez-vous with Sherlock. Note that we have established a ‘no contact’ rule with him as of his leaving, yesterday, so we could not tell him any of these changes. We rely on you to go all through this with him. Any questions?” Mycroft stopped talking and pacing in the end, looking straight at her. Joan reviewed her notes, making sure she hadn’t missed anything.

“I think you pretty much covered everything. What about my identity?” She asked. Mycroft nodded, relieved, and gestured toward Greg. Joan’s superior took over the explanation.

“We liked your name but we can’t use it as a whole, it’s too recognizable.” He told her, handing her new passport and documents (medical licence and so on) “You’ll be John Harrison, 25, doctor. You’ll find more details about it in the file.” He spoke briskly. Joan nodded, suddenly relieved: her tissue with the embroidered J and H would still work well for Sherlock then. “Come with me, Joan,” Greg said, “Let’s go and visit the Q Branch before you leave. Mr Stark is well known, but I’ll be a bit more at ease knowing that our men gave you something of theirs.”

They took the elevator and descended to the subterranean level. Q, as he was nicknamed by his colleagues, was waiting for them.

“Joan, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he said, gallantly kissing her hand, “Come, I have some special features for you and your brainy husband.” 

Joan smiled good naturedly at the elder man, following him to the table where the objects were located. Greg followed them, always curious to know what Q had invented. 

“Let’s begin! First things first, you’ll impersonate a doctor, which you also are and this is the most convenient of combinations! Here you have a nice stethoscope.” He said, showing her the unassuming tool, “Apparently it’s a normal one, but the rubber it’s made of is very resistant and just pulling off the bell and the earpieces, you’ll be able to use it to tie someone or use it to strangle someone, for example,” he said cheerfully. 

Joan nodded and took note of how remove the metal pieces, “The bell itself is a nice thing, it’s enhanced so you should be able to ear sound even from behind a secure door. The earpieces are totally soundproof when disengaged from the steel part, and each one is a pair of earplugs.” Greg raised an eyebrow, “Come on, Chief, don’t worry, I’m just starting! This is only the warm up. Here you have a scalpel-pen, you never know how and when it could be useful. I even prepared a pair of special glasses for Sherlock, they weren’t ready yesterday, so I’m giving them to you. The lenses seem to be neutral and are pretty harmless if they’re whole, but if you break them, they contain a special solution that can melt metal. I’d advise a bit of caution in case of accidental falls. Here you have three pairs, you never know, better to have spares.” He talked quickly, making it almost difficult for Joan to follow.

“I hope I’ll have a user’s manual for these things” she murmured to Greg, who laughed. Q went back to them,

“Aaaah, what else, let’s see…” Joan nodded and asked questions when she deemed them necessary. In the end, she left with another bag full of “gadgets” as Q called them. 

She became John Harrison in front of the very same mirror in the very same bathroom that had assisted at her first change at MI6 HQ and then took the flight that would lead her at the American base, where Mr Stark would meet her and fit her with his creations.  
In reality, she couldn’t wait to see Sherlock – Peter as she should learn to call him - again.


	5. Chapter 5: It's good to be on the field again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan FINALLY leaves for her mission and meets some interesting people :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was HELL to write. It took WEEKS, because I needed to make believable gadgets for the fifties (I have to thank my partner for his help!) and so on... and then it risked the effect "shopping list", but it was rescued by my Beta in shining armour, NepturnalHarianne, who was precious for the publication of this chapter.
> 
> As I said in "The Importance of Being Earnest", I am still writing this fic. It should consist of 11 chapters, at least following the planning. Don't despair ^^. 
> 
> This said... Let's get down to business! (To defeat the huns!... oh, no, no, no! It's the wrong fandom!).

The flight took most of the night and Joan landed at the American base in the early hours of the new day. She had checked her make-up in the small stall on the plane while one of the agents that had flown with her took her luggage. Deeming her disguise still credible, she got out of the plane, where a beautiful, dark haired woman wearing a uniform walked up to meet her.

“Agent Harrison, I’m Agent Margaret Carter, welcome to the Strategic Scientific Reserve base, we were waiting for you.” The woman started on a roll, welcoming her with calm efficiency. “It’s of the utmost importance that the mission goes as smoothly as possible,” Joan straightened up imperceptibly at her direct gaze. “If you would follow me, please.” 

“Thanks for the welcome, Agent carter. Please call me John.” Joan said, following the agent’s gesture with her eyes. She nodded towards the base. “We share the same sentiment, shall we go?” she said, happy to see that her voice held fine her lower tone and carried well. 

“Call me Peggy, then. And let’s go, Mr Stark will be insufferable. I take it that Q has equipped you?” Agent Carter asked, guiding Joan inside the base. She looked around, mapping the place in her mind, should she need it.

“Exactly, but Mr H said that Mr Stark would have something for me too.” She answered, keeping up with Carter’s pace as they progressed through the base.

“Well then, we are here,” Peggy turned to Joan as they reached their destination. “enjoy yourself, John.” She said, opening the double door in front of them, before striding in.

The room was large and high ceilinged. Joan entered without changing her pace, but her gaze was keen on everything. At a first glance, she could not recognize the various objects scattered around even though she was pretty sure that, strangely enough, those on one of the steel tables that lined the walls were indeed shields. Approximately 100 feet long and 30 feet wide, the huge warehouse was buzzing with activity.  
The clean steel tables, including the one with all those shields, were more or less nine feet long and three feet wide. They stood at four feet from the walls as people in white coats worked on them with tools that seemed the refined and upgraded version of the DIY tools her father used to keep at home in a case under the garage’s lavatory, or an advanced version of her husband’s chemistry set. The last four tables in front of her were angled at 90° from the others, facing a wide platform where a control panel was placed on the short side of the building. Lights, valves, and circular windows that resembled temperature and pressure indicators decorated the wall behind. A man on the shorter side, with dark hair and intelligent dark eyes, was staring at them, sitting on the angled table nearer to the wall. Joan noticed that Stark’s eyes (for that couldn’t be anyone else) moved over her in a manner non dissimilar from Sherlock’s way to gauge a new acquaintance. She also noticed that he seemed more on the leering side on the professionally dressed but still stunning Peggy. If the voices she had heard were right, the same treatment would soon be reserved to her too, despite the gender she supposedly belonged to. 

“Well, well, well, look what we have here! Peggy, sure they know how to send agents from England!” Stark exclaimed. He wasn’t wearing a white coat: dark brown dress trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up at the elbows and a waistcoat in the same colour of the trousers adorned the man. He came down from the table, standing before them. He was just a couple of inches higher than Joan, and seemed to be perfectly at ease with all those machines and mechanical parts that were strewn around. “Welcome to my little den, Agent Harrison. Mr H recommended me to give you the best, and that I shall do.” He said, offering his right hand. Joan gripped and shook it firmly.

“Thanks for the welcome, Mr Stark,” she smiled tightly, keeping her male voice pleasant but professional. “Now if you could please excuse my hurry, I really need to get going in few hours and I want to make sure I understand the instructions for your equipment.” Joan said, trying to shift the attention of that unnerving man from herself to his creations. Stark beamed.

“Call me Howard, John, and yes! Let’s get down to business .” Howard Stark rubbed his hands together, evidently glad to be able to show off to someone new. “Follow me, I’ve selected a few items I think will benefit you and Agent Holmes the most.” He said, winking at them and gesturing Joan and Peggy to follow. They moved at their left, leaving the warehouse main room for a smaller and more secluded area, where the actual weapons and instruments, those finished, tested and working, were kept. Howard beckoned the other two to come near the counter that rested on the farthest side of the room. Joan and Peggy followed him and Joan observed the man while he took several objects from the drawers of the counter itself.  
“And here we are!” He exclaimed, voice thick with satisfaction, “This is the equipment that I prepared for your mission.” He made a showing gesture with his hands, bringing Joan’s eyes on the surface of the table. A couple of purse-watches, two bags (a document carrier and a doctor’s bag), and a couple of strange long-sleeved undershirts in a sheen material. “I didn’t want to burden you with more gadgets you could learn to use, so here we are, straight and simple!” He exclaimed with the same bouncing enthusiasm a child would show for his toys.

“Mr Stark, can we proceed?” Joan said with a pointed glare, her patience wearing thin. “I still need to be updated about the Tesseract and then I’ll have to leave to meet my colleague.” 

Howard Stark seemed crestfallen for less than a second, then he grinned.

“I like this guy," he said, eyeing Peggy with what would be a conspiratory glance. “he goes straight to the point. Alright then, let’s begin!”  
Stark then took the first item, one of the purse-watches, and dangled it in front of the two women from its chain “Thiiiis… this seems a normal, if stylish, purse watch. I especially designed it for my line, I like my creations to be nice and smart, you know.” Joan suppressed an eye-roll. “But! It’s not just simple purse-watch. If you push the crown three times and rotate it counter-clockwise, for three times as well, you will obtain a wonderful functioning grenade.” The man grinned madly while bouncing said small grenade in his hand, under Joan’s unnerved eyes. “The explosion is very noisy and produces a lot of flames but it actually can’t injure much.” Joan raised an eyebrow, “it’s good for a diversion without casualties, isn’t it just an annoyance to tend to enemies’ injuries?”

“Can you keep on, Mr Stark? We are on a schedule, here.” Peggy intervened, receiving a grateful glance from Joan. 

“Ok, ok, you’re on a rush, aren’t you? The bags! The bags are pretty much unassuming but they’re internally reinforced with an alloy of Vibranium and steel.” He paused to look towards the first table Joan had noticed entering in, “It’s not as efficient as Captain America’s shield was, but it’s good enough to block a bullet.”  
The mad genius’ fingers, perpetually moving restlessly it seemed, reached the shimmering material of the next items and toyed with it as he spoke. “The undershirts are a special treat,” he smiled genially. “I’ve prepared several of them and you should always make sure to wear them. They’re made of a special material, a mix we studied, that keeps constant the temperature of the body, very useful when you need to work outside and you can’t have too much encumbrance. The material is pretty resistant to piercing and cutting, so it offers a moderate resistance to knives. An interesting side-effect, I admit.” He said that last part with some consideration, as if it were something he’d only chanced upon. “This should be all-” he was already moving away, but then he stopped and turned back around. “Oh, no, I was forgetting! The handles of the bags,” he took the bags back, showing Joan an unlocking system, “are actually two handguns. Not very powerful, but good for emergencies and short-range. I suggest to be very professional and always bring the bags along. You never know when you’ll need a shield. Or a gun.”

Joan smiled at that, reluctantly charmed by the man, and leaned forward to inspect the bags. “Handguns will be certainly useful,” she nodded. “About this unlocking system…”  
She then proceeded to ask Mr Stark about the exact functioning of the tools and left only when she was satisfied about their proper use. 

Agent Carter led Joan in another office, in a separate area of the army base. She sat at her desk and took out a manila envelope, blank on the outside but stuffed with documents. 

“Please, John, sit there and I’ll explain you about the Tesseract.”  
Joan nodded and took the envelope, sitting on the chair on the other side of the desk. 

“The truth is that we don’t know much about its origins.” The Agent begun in a matter-of-fact tone. “We know that Johann Schmidt found it in Norway and that he started experimenting with it. Since it seems to be an unlimited source of energy, he used it to fuel the weapons H.Y.D.R.A. developed at the time.” The agent shuffled with some of the documents in the folder, stopping only when she found a very blurry photo of what seemed to be one such weapon, with its specification on the side. “I don’t have details on the Tesseract itself and we think it went lost when Captain Rogers…”  
Joan noticed how Peggy’s voice trembled imperceptibly, her eyes for a moment full of hurt. Joan had to fight the impulse to take her hand: it would only be acceptable if she weren’t currently playing the role of a man.  
The Agent seemed to shake off her obvious sadness, her expression slowing back to one of pure professionalism before she begun talking once again.  
“Anyway, all the data we have on the weapons developed with its energy is in this folder.” Agent Carter slid the papers towards Joan, who took them and tucked them inside the bag with a nod. “A piece of advice: if you find yourself in front of one of those weapons, try to get as far as possible from them. It doesn’t matter where they hit you, they will kill you nonetheless, and nothing remains. They usually have blue glowing parts as you’ve seen in the photo, because they use the same substance the Tesseract seems to be made of.” She added. 

Joan felt herself shiver at the thought of such powerful weapons in the hands of their enemies.  
Peggy seemed to think for a moment, almost as if she were ticking boxes in her mind to check that they had exhausted all the topics they had to discuss. Knowing how some minds worked, such as that of her very same husband, Joan wouldn’t have been surprised to find that to be the truth. Agent Carter nodded imperceptibly once, and then gazed at the clock. “It’s time for your transport. If you want to follow me.” She said, standing up.

“Agent Carter,” Joan started, glad he voice didn’t waver “Thanks for your help.” The woman’s lips upturned in a rapid smile.

“Find them and terminate them, Agent Harrison.” She told Joan, steel in her voice. 

“We will.” Joan answered. The two agents exited from the warehouse and headed to the heliport walking in silence.

 

In the end, it was almost noon by the time Joan boarded the helicopter that would bring her to New York City, and she could barely contain her enthusiasm. On the field again, and on her way to her husband’s, who wouldn’t be expecting her. She almost felt like on their first mission in Dublin.  
The cab (false cab, arranged by Mycroft) that brought her to the Waldorf-Astoria was slowed by the huge traffic in Manhattan. Joan first saw the hotel from the car’s window at three in the afternoon.  
Hopefully, they would have the time to go through their new program and she could make it fast enough to teach him about the new equipment they had been given, too. She gave herself a pep talk upon getting out of the cab, falling in her “John-persona” once again.  
At the reception desk, she asked for the room they had been assigned (a double roomed suite, suitable for two bachelors) and, presenting the documents the MI6 had expressly forged for her, she was given the key to their room.  
At the 27th floor of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, the key was a heavy weight in her hand. She took a deep breath, inserted it and turned.

Sherlock was waiting for his liaison officer, annoyed by his lateness and trying to make sense of the reports he had found upon taking possession of the room, the day before. His Peter Sherrinford persona was perfect, a pair of fake glasses perched on his nose, his hair, shorter and kept well in order (he hated it, it had taken a whole week of job for Joan and him to get him rid of his habit of grabbing his hair, a habit Peter Sherringford didn’t have, anyway), and the three piece suit in different shades of blue was perfect, to his body and to the Sherringford disguise. He was re-reading a paragraph describing the discoveries that their contact claimed they’d been able to do about the Tesseract , when he heard the key turning in its keyhole. He tensed slightly, ready to fight if necessary. He remembered then that only one person would have the key of the room, and he relaxed somehow.

“You’re late. You’re terribly late and I am already appalled.” He said, with Professor’s Sherringford northern accent, sharping his Rs and rounding the vowels. When the voice answered, he abruptly turned around, absolutely distracted, uncaring of the file that he had been reading, whose sheets full of mostly useless data were now scattered around the floor.

“Your accent is slightly off kilt, remember not to open those vowels too much.” Sherlock froze, he knew that voice, he had committed every nuance of that voice to his memory, included this version: lower and calmer.  
He had taught her to talk like that, like a man. Sherlock’s eyes darted immediately to Joan’s. She was smiling, underneath the moustache the thin lips were stretched in a self-satisfied expression that was Joan’s “I surprised you” smile.  
He gaped for a second like a fish, and then-

“What is your name?” he asked, correcting immediately his pronunciation. Joan’s smile widened and answered.

“Doctor John Harrison, pleased to meet you, Professor Sherringford.” She said, hiding a grin that wanted to spread across her face. 

Sherlock stood up suddenly and proceeded to close the windows, shut the blinds and lock the door as fast as possible without giving anything away.  
The room was submerged by darkness, but for a small sliver of light coming from the curtains that played with Joan’s hair, highlighting the short cut.  
Sherlock closed the distance in a couple of long strides, cornering her, looming over her, completely flabbergasted for a moment.  
He shook it off quickly though, and he lifted her, hooking his hands underneath her arse, and pushing her against the wall, pressing his body on hers. The kiss was demanding and freeing and Joan wanted to burst out laughing but she knew she couldn’t, and her lips were pretty busy in that moment anyway, answering in kind to Sherlock’s hungry outburst. She looped her arms around his neck, trying to avoid messing the short hair up. They eventually parted, noses touching. 

Joan finally grinned, her eyes crinkling.

“You. Are. Extraordinary, John.” Sherlock murmured on her lips. Joan smiled and her husband kept talking “but this moustache is terrible. It tickles like hell.” he added, falsely disgruntled, before looking her in the eyes and smiling. “I’ll never get used to it.”  
Joan chuckled, trying to keep the voice as low as possible, and pecked him again.

“You are repeating yourself. And I’ll repeat it for you: now you know what I feel when you don’t shave for a couple of days.” She retorted, aiming for nonplussed, landing on breathy.

“You’re here. We’re together and you managed once again to surprise me. I’m always genial, but marrying you has certainly been my greatest moment of genius.” He murmured in her ear, as low as possible. 

“Heaven forbids you’re anything but a genius even in finding a wife.” She deadpanned. “It’s just that you’re useless without me. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep…” she added, sliding her hands over his arms.

“I don’t sleep when I’m with you either…” he murmured sensually, biting her ear. Joan moaned lightly, but pushed him away and got back on her feet.

“What a charmer. Business before pleasure, Mr Sherringford,” she adjusted her clothing, smoothing out the wrinkles with a playful smile in his direction. “Let’s get back on track, I have to update you on a billion things.” 

She walked away then, seemingly unaffected (apart from the point of her ears, that Sherlock knew was her giveaway when flustered) and her husband grinned madly. The outcome of the mission was looking definitely looking up.


End file.
